Monthly Archives: March 2012

OMG!! I am so, soooo, soooooooo very overwhelmed by the love that has poured in for my poem. This was written straight from the heart and I am grateful that you, my wonderful readers, could sense that, feel it and appreciate it. Your love and appreciation only serves as encouragement, and I hope that I can live up to your expectations.

I now have an appeal. A very, very talented poetess, who I am honoured to call a friend, has a poem that been nominated for a competition. I have plans on doing a full post about her haunting poetry, but until I do, please trust me that she is BRILLIANT. Her name is Sharanya Manivannan and she blogs here. Visit her and drown in words, images and thoughts of unparalleled beauty.

Maybe I’ll paint my nails today.
Or go to the salon for some pampering.
Maybe I’ll wear a sari today,
with silver jewellery
and line my eyes
with kohl
and laughter.
Or maybe I’ll just stay in my pj’s
the whole day
with clouds of perfume
dancing above my head.

I’ll probably buy some chocolate
just for me
and eat it up whole —
every last smudge of it,
licking off the melty bits from the
shiny foil.
Maybe it’ll be Lindt.
Or Guylian.
Whichever one it is,
I’ll do it guilt-free.
I’ll do it for me.

Perhaps I’ll let the whole day slide away,
softly,
seamlessly,
from one frame to the next,
minute by minute,
second by moment,
and I’ll just let the ironed clothes be,
leave the books open,
and not care if the wet towel’s on the bed.
Again.
As usual.

I won’t care.
I won’t.
I refuse to.

Maybe I’ll write poetry today.
Or read some at least.
Buy a book.
Or three.
And I’ll read them
all together,
skipping from page to page,
character to character,
author to author
while sipping on endless cups
of fragrant tea,
spiced with
cloves,
cardamom,
ginger
and songs from the tea-gardens.

I’ll stand in front of the mirror,
naked,
and accept myself
and my body.

My body,
with thunder thighs
and lightning-streaked hair;
with gravity-loving breasts,
and dimpled cheeks
(of the derriere);
with those blasted hate-handles
that a pair of giant hands
can firmly clutch on to,
to lift me up and plant me down;
and that big mound
of quivering,
dancing,
jelly-like,
lardy,
fatty tummy
slashed repeatedly with
white-hot stretch-marks.
I will
NOT
mourn the decade past,
when I was younger
and definitely beautiful,
but just didn’t have the wisdom to see it,
own it
and know it to be true.

I will not weep
at this new-found wisdom.

I will sing instead.
I will bow my head
in grace
and gratitude
and then look me in the eye
with love.

I don’t always agree with the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences when they dole out their awards once a year in the biggest glam-fest of Hollywood. I still love, love, LOVE watching the Oscars though, and religiously do so, setting my alarm clock so that I can catch the live telecast, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I agree with the choices.

But this time…oh, THIS time they were absolutely spot-bang-on! And how! I mean, a silent movie — in THIS day and age! And not just silent, but black-and-white and silent! Wow!

“The Artist” is a triumph! I just loved it! It was perfect in every which way!

The look, feel and emotions of the film — perfect.

Jean DuJardin as George Valentine — perfect.

Berenice Bejo as Peppy Miller — perfect.

James Cromwell as Clifton and John Goodman as Al Zimmer and even Penelope Ann Miller as George’s unhappy wife, Doris — perfect.

It’s a simple movie about a simpler time and what happens when simple starts to get complex. Is all change good? Can everyone be expected to change? What happens to those who don’t want to or can’t? Again, the answer is simple — they adapt.

Of course the movie is also about human egos and frailties. Thoughtless or flippant remarks made without thinking about their impact on another person. About remorse, love and making-up. About stars fading away and stars being born. About saying it all without saying a word.

There are no grand, complex plot lines which require a few stiff drinks or a puff on a special cigarette to help you work out what it is the film is trying to say. No crude theatrics. No gratuitous sex, violence or nudity…not even a tiny spark except for a certain hand gesture which our young have happily picked up thanks to Ranbir ‘Rockstar’ Kapoor. No fireworks…by which I mean SFX of the ‘Avatar’ and ‘Transformers’ modules; no, not even of the ‘Ben-Hur’ calibre.

It’s a clean movie. It’s a simple movie. It’s a sweet, solid, touching movie. Jean DuJardin is classic, b’n’w, old Hollywood handsome and his smile just makes you want to be his toothbrush! (and ummm, I do mean that in a sexy-cat way, of course). And Berenice Bejo! Oh she just lights up the screen with her presence with such a mobile face that exhibits a hundred-and-fifty different emotions a minute! She looked the part of the quintessential flapper girl of the twenties and her eyes spoke such volumes that I almost forgave her for having a body shape that I last had when I was six-years-old.

Granted I haven’t seen Martin Scorcece’s ‘Hugo’ or Woody Allen’s ‘Midnight in Paris’ (which, something tells me, I’m going to love, own and claim as ‘made for me’) or even ‘The Descendants’ by Alexander Payne, but I loved ‘The Artist’ from start to finish and I think it was definitely worthy of an Oscar.

Yes, I know I’m a soppy, sentimentalist, but so, it would seem, is Michel Hazanavicius and the voting jury of the 84th Academy Awards.

Go on. Give the movie a shot. It might surprise you. It certainly did my husband.